


Memories of Peace

by Margan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clone Trooper Culture (Star Wars), Fluff, Jedi Culture Appreciated, Order 66
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margan/pseuds/Margan
Summary: It's not quite flash training, but the Clones are used to learning fast. It helps that this is something that they actually look forward to learning, to putting into practice.Obi-Wan teaches the Clones how to make dumplings in the middle of war.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Clone Troopers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 196
Collections: The Temple Archives





	1. Lessons in Wanton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [virdant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lessons of Peace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26559805) by [virdant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/virdant/pseuds/virdant). 



> A counterpart to Virdant's Lessons of Peace, where Obi-Wan tries his best in the middle of war to gift the Clones some happy memories ;')
> 
> A.K.A the Angsty Dumplings fic

It starts during their first deployment. The men are bored - not used to having to fill their training time themselves. Especially not after they had the excitement of their first real battle, and the moroseness of having actual dead men in the aftermath. Their feelings are mixed - nothing is like what they expected, back in Kamino and dreaming of war.

And, well, the mess provided food is honestly an affront to sentiment life, in Obi-Wan's opinion.

When they next restock, in addition to the usual pre-packed food to be rehydrated for meals, several pallets of flour find their way on board. It's not the only addition to standard order, but so early into the war, nobody bats an eye since a standard order hadn't actually been established yet.

* * *

After the next conflict, in the long hyperspace transit to their next battle, the men gravitate towards the mess. Obi-Wan sits in the middle of the crowd of clones, patiently mixing up new batches of dough as he oversees other men rehydrating meat and vegetables to be mashed up further, mixed with interesting bottles and sauces Obi-Wan unearths from the flour pallets.

He teaches them the right measurements to make the soup, the dough, the meat fillings; the timing to add the ingredients to the soup and how to tell when the dough was ready to be rolled paper thin. And then they leave the soup to simmer on one side, each batch of men eagerly watching as their General demonstrates with slow but sure fingers - the exact spoonful of filling he dollops onto the square-shaped wrapper. The light touch of water around the edges as he seals the filling in. The careful way he pulls the ends together, cumulating into the small dumpling that sits in the cradle of his palm.

The men's first attempts go poorly. Unlike the pristine ingots that sits in rows beside their General, there are dimples and tears in their contributions. The tips that curve so gracefully over the filling in their General's dumplings fall limp in his men's, saturated with water. The General sits at the table with them, gently correcting all the dumplings that are passed to him for inspection, but never-the-less placing them proudly in line with the neat dumplings he has already made. His smile gets brighter with each new dumpling presented to him, even as his hands begin to work blindingly fast through the wrappers by his side.

The squads begin good-natured competitions, going through wrapper after wrapper, trying to beat the General's speed alone. Even through the interruptions to demonstrate for newcomers, the completed trays stack up by his side.

When all the dough is rolled out and cut, and the filling all wrapped up, the Clones ferry the trays into the kitchen, where the large pots of boiling soup bubble merrily. While kitchen duty is usually met with groans, this time clones crowd excitedly at the serving windows, jostling to bring completed trays to their watery doom. Each tray dumped into the large pots is met with cheers, even as some filling separates from the wrapper upon contact. Obi-Wan smiles, quietly dishing out the bobbing dumplings into small bowls, ensuring that there is enough to go around even for the men still on shift.

Although most of the vegetables and meat were from the usual rehydrated meals the Clones have been eating all their lives, the silky-wrapped dumplings goes down much smoother than anything they've eaten before, the taste of the ingredients somehow elevated beyond the flavourings added. The warmth the men carry with them throughout the rest of the day is not just from the hearty soup drunk alongside the dumplings.

For a while, the mood is buoyant. The men don't think of the missing members in their squads, nor the battles awaiting them when they emerge from hyperspace. Making food together, rubbing precious flour in each other's blacks, trying to guess which misshapen dumpling was made by which brother -

Obi-Wan slurps the orphaned wrappers as he watches over his men. Without the protection of the dough, the fillings bulge oddly, in little clumps rather than a neat ball. It tastes of family - not quite the one he left in the Temple, but a growing addition, just as near and dear to his heart.

* * *

The second time it happens, the men were a little sadder, the empty spaces more glaring. They have a month in hyperspace to get to their next battlefront, and two weeks in the men have recovered and are restless again. There was only so much training to be done, and the options for entertainment was slim. When word spreads of the General putting out bags of flour, the men gravitate towards the mess again.

Most remember the first time, quickly falling into the meditative movements of mixing the dough, the fillings and the soup. Shinies are quickly enveloped into a more experienced group, who show them how to scoop only enough filling to wrap neatly, the motions to fold and tuck pristine little ingots. The squads are much faster now, matching Obi-Wan tray for tray. He laughs and leaves the wrapping to them, but still smiles in delight at every dumpling presented to him.

There's still plenty of flour left, so Obi-Wan teaches them to make noodles along with the dumplings. He rolls and folds in tandem with the men, showing them the right way to flick and send a even smattering of flour across the entire dough-laden table with just a handful. The first few ribbons they slice are uneven, some breaking apart the moment they're unwrapped, but soon the men are slicing in even, smooth, rocking strokes, for their brothers to dust the delicate strips with flour and curl into small hand-sized nests. The trays are occupied with the dumplings, so the tables at the far corner of the mess are sanitised and the noodles are lined up in preparation for cooking.

Obi-Wan supervises the first few bowls that are made, but the crowd of clones teaching each other at the stations leave him hovering on the outskirts, only able to smile at the men eagerly agitating their noodles in the hot water. The men laugh at their brothers who break their noodles in their enthusiasm, and their good-natured ribbing fills the echoing hall. They slurp the noodles, cheeks bulging with dumplings and soup, and for a while the mess hall quietens in favour of chewing.

The shifts change, and the newcomers are taught the new skills. For a whole cycle, the mess hall is full of men rotating through in their free time, teasing each other for the minor mistakes and pointing out blacks stained with white - a happy memory of the day.

Obi-Wan sits in the hall to supervise with a pile of datapads and a regularly refilled cup of tea, but he mainly gives nods of approval to the men that come by, clutching their efforts and seeking recognition or advice.

The next day, everything goes back to normal. The dead are not forgotten, but the spaces are filled with lighter memories, the taste of dumpling noodles still lingering in their minds.

* * *

The 212th is one of the main attack battalions of the Grand Army of the Republic, so they do not get much downtime. Occasionally, they barely get enough time to re-supply, and it becomes more difficult to order supplies. But on occasion, when they do have the time and the ingredients, deep in hyperspace where there is no worry of being attacked, the men gather in the mess. They used to wait for their General to signal that it was fine, but eventually the bolder men gained the courage to begin pulling out the flour themselves, starting the dough and the soup as their brothers trickle in.

The flavours differ, depending on what they have available. No matter how odd the combination of meat and vegetables they had were, it was more about the companionship the men had, those halcyon hours of just scooping and folding, or kneading the dough into shape as the smell of the soup bubbling over the stove fill the men with anticipation of their unorthodox meal. They build their own recipes off what the General had taught them, incorporating the latest human-safe local meat or vegetables they manage to scrounge up into the same basic recipe.

They speculate on what new planets may bring, the new flavours that might be found, and all is well. Perhaps a little quieter from the stress, but war takes its toll.

The cycle continues - a battle is fought, the men tend to their wounds, then they move off to the next killing field, where more of them will inevitably fall no matter how their Jedi defends them. It is the small happy moments in the mess, coming up with new ways of wrapping dumplings, sitting side-by-side with their squads competing to see who could make the most dumplings. The rows of mishappen balls, arranged with pride and love on trays lining even the benches of the mess - enough to feed the entire ship. You can always tell a squad's tray of dumplings from the others’, each as unique as the men that make them, the individual flourishes across the squads that can be traced back to the men who taught them, passed on through living brothers.

In the dark of war, the men remember the inevitable moment when a shiny, too eager to try new things, chokes on the noodles as they shovel it into their mouth, bringing laughter to the hall. It is the memory of dumplings bobbling in boiling water before it is fished out, tucked into the slightly uneven slices of noodles.

It is those small memories that draw them ever onward. The end of the war is but a fantasy to the Clones, but the closest the Clones come to peace is in the mess, folding dumplings and boiling noodles in the company of their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can stop reading here! Chapter 2 is post-Order 66 if you want to be sad.
> 
> Slightly different from Virdant's work - the clones are taught how to make wanton mee here. The actual recipe is handwaved because of the lack of ingredients but if you eat wanton mee, always eat the dry version :). Technically the dumplings should be called wanton/wonton but, eh, I'm not sure if it's actually English so dumplings it is.
> 
> [ Reblog on Tumblr ](https://marganuniverse.tumblr.com/post/633501944200216576/memories-of-peace-chapter-1-margan-star-wars)


	2. After Order 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CT-2645 is Boil, because I couldn't find a canon trooper number for him and if you use a numeric keyboard, those are the numbers to press if you want to spell Boil. I am a simple person.

CT-2645 is on kitchen duty. He's gotten old and, according to the Empire, his use as a field solider is limited with his aches and pains. He's fought for over a decade for the Empire, and his battle worn body, no matter how precisely trained and augmented, can no longer keep up with the sheer youth of the bodies filling the ranks of the stormtrooper corps.

War has always been his life, but it is not as though CT-2645 has anything left to fight for. The Clones left in the entire ship aren't even enough to man the mess; they have a rotating shift of stormtroopers on punishment duty to assist in the washing of the dishes. Their time has passed, and it is an honour to serve the Empire in any way they can until the end of their useful life.

During the time between mess hours, when no nat-born would venture through, the Clones scrounge up a bit of flour. Some seasonings, the powders and sauces they somehow know will go well together with the rehydrated meat and vegetables available. And they crowd around the same table, a small pot bubbling merrily in the background.

It feels different, yet familiar. The Clones are quiet, as any Clone in the Empire is, but somehow through the repetitive movements the silence lightens with memories they can't quite grasp. It feels as though there are more of them there, working in tandem shooting good natured barbs at each other. They occasionally get the urge to bring their dumplings to someone, to seek approval for the neat rows on the tray. But there is no one else.

The dumplings they make are pristine white balls, little soldiers marching in clean lines, identical to each other. When they dig into the bowls of perfectly even noodles, there is a hollowness that the warm broth doesn’t fill. The recipes aren’t standard in the Army, no Clone remembers where they learnt it.

But they still roll out the dough to precise thickness and slice perfectly, agitating the noodles in water with measured flicks of their wrists. They scoop the floating dumplings out, their eyes teary from steam –

And they eat. Silent.

If they remember anything, they do not share.

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly different from Virdant's work - the clones are taught how to make wanton mee here. The actual recipe is handwaved because of the lack of ingredients but if you eat wanton mee, always eat the dry version :). Technically the dumplings should be called wanton/wonton but, eh, I'm not sure if it's actually English so dumplings it is.
> 
> [ Reblog on Tumblr ](https://marganuniverse.tumblr.com/post/633501944200216576/memories-of-peace-chapter-1-margan-star-wars%20rel=)


End file.
